


symbiosis

by CRINGEJUM



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28275378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CRINGEJUM/pseuds/CRINGEJUM
Summary: He raises the pickaxe, and brings it down to the Netherrack. He raises the pickaxe, and his eyes twitch in reluctant anticipation. He raises the pickaxe, and he raises the pickaxe, and he raises the pickaxe.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

> Hope u enjoy!

Techno raises his pickaxe and hits the Netherite with ease and monotony. 

A nothing task full of nothing actions. Getting lost in the repetition of movement and scenery, as a welcoming reminder that the world slows down. Patterns bring comfort to some degree, when not sought after obsessively, and Techno tries to border on the safe side. 

If he draws himself inside enough, he could imagine his heartbeat, the pumping of blood through his body with every second passing. It's a strange feeling, to be so awarely unaware of yourself. Having it any other way would bring more harm than good, but sometimes Techno just wishes he had control of everything he needs to have control of. A body that works with the conscious mind. 

The pickaxe, the Toothpick, the poor imitation of a weapon gleams in the dangerous warm light. Techno treasures his tools, but he can't find appreciation for this one. Like pity it works, and like pity it kills, and Techno treats no one with pity. Death, so interwoven in his arms and legs, should be respectful, and a pickaxe like this one is laughter in your face before you meet your demise. 

If he had a choice, Techno would rather use his hands than the pickaxe, but philosophical merit means nothing when faced with physical danger. 

It's the thought that counts, maybe. 

Seeing a face break due to the pickaxe, metaphorical and otherwise, is never a nice sight to see. Blood for the Blood God, but make it clean and pretty, like it rarely is. 

Wilbur's death could've looked clean and pretty, if Techno wasn't aware of the spiraling mess in his head--dying as someone you aren't supposed to be is not a satisfying conclusion to your life. 

Quackity died once, twice, and all by Techno's hands. He was barely aware of the first time, so zeroed in on Tubbo's panicked expression as he stood there in that box. Techno would call it an accident if he had less pride. 

The second time was much more significant in its nature, and Techno made sure to channel every hateful thought in his body towards Quackity. For the man to seek him out in the first place is brave, and somewhere, somewhere Techno can appreciate that--but now with Quackity on one life, he'd appreciate it much more if he learned his lesson. 

Techno heard the fear in his voice, and Techno heard the conviction in his voice, and it's the tone of someone who is completely aware of the odds. 

Quackity wasn't, and he never will be. He is foolish in his bravery and impulsive in his morals, but never malicious at heart. 

The more Techno thinks about it, the more he sees what Quackity believes. 

There is fire in both of their lungs, so desperate to defend their beliefs. Everyone can die, and everyone will die, so you clamber onto your morals like a personal religion, to guide you and reassure you, because every human is born good until they aren't. So you step with utter precision, or throw yourself headfirst into chaos, but there will always be that string that you hold, to make your decisions and say your words for you. 

Change the string or cut it, and you'll feel lost for a while. Get tangled in its complexity, and you might tie it around your neck. At the end of your life you are left with a little ball of wool, and ingraved in the pattern is every path you chose. 

Techno's path was messy, but in its filth and blood is catharsis, the pure feeling of being alive, blood in his mouth that tastes like a metallic victory. 

Screaming and laughing, and never dying, and death circling around your head like an overexcited companion, swinging like an axe. 

Blood for the Blood God, and every time he raises his pickaxe he feels a skull crush beneath it, sees the short moment where Quackity fell to the floor, one eye looking up, painted red with blood--the short moment before he actually died, and Techno can never tell if the look in the bloodied eye was one of absolute terror, or of channeled wishes of revenge. 

He raises the pickaxe, and brings it down to the Netherrack. He raises the pickaxe, and his eyes twitch in reluctant anticipation. He raises the pickaxe, and he raises the pickaxe, and he raises the pickaxe. 

* * *

Empty emotion drawn across a transparent figure, and once again Techno wonders why Wilbur chose to come back like this. 

The ghost brings unhappy comfort in its presence, and Techno half-heartedly leans into it, letting calm wash over his mind before he does. 

The ghost is kind in its actions, and free in its will, but on a see-through surface level, that makes the people around him avert their eyes, and play along with his little lie. 

Techno isn't one to take a moral high ground. He plays the lying game best, probably only second to Philza.

Tommy--doesn't. He thinks twice about words that the ghost says, and narrows his eyes at him, sees him like a puzzle to be solved, and not like a puzzle missing most of its pieces. The emotion Tommy shows is disdain and suspicion, but the one he feels is hope--a look in the boys eyes and you see the pain of losing someone so important to him, the desperation to get him back. 

Wilbur, when alive, hurt Tommy gravely, and deliberately. 

Wilbur, when dead, hurts Tommy, by reminding him what he lost, what could've been. 

Wilbur still exists, and that in itself is enough to prolong his pain, and those around him. 

But who is Techno to accuse him. Who is Techno to deem his existence salt to the wound. 

After all, he's playing along. Isn't he? 

* * *

"I believe in absolute reciprocity." hand outstretched for a handshake, like the statement is too weak on its own. Dream doesn't ask, and takes it like offered. 

"That's good." hand still in the other, like a silent competition who backs off first. There is hardly any unwelcome pressure from Dream's hand, the fingers gingerly pressing into his skin. Techno looks at his own fingers, nails growing ragged and uneven, long and short and broken, and then he looks at the carefully tended nails on Dream's fingers, short, but not artificially so, almost like they were cut just hours ago. 

Techno used to pride himself in looking organized and healthy even at his lowest. An unhinged appearance strikes fear in people, but a completely composed appearance is much scarier than that. 

'This takes no toll on me,' it seems to say. 'Nothing that you do has an effect on me.' 

Everything you do is futile. 

Physically speaking, tactically speaking, he and Dream see eye to eye, and that's probably the reason why they chose to respect each other. 

But if things continue this way, Dream can take the upper hand, and Dream can change the odds to his favor, and Dream can-

Dream can do anything. 

With a vague sense of dread he let's go of his hand. He refuses to feel afraid of Dream. He needs to stay calm like he always was, and keep everything under control. 

When Dream bids him goodbye, Techno looks at his back for a long time as he leaves. The green is strikingly idiotic and funny in the white wasteland. Slight camouflage in his own lands, but a target in the snow tundra-

Techno thought too far ahead. Things are still in his favor. Things will always be in his favor, if he just puts his feverish ambitions to it. 

He walks over to one of the chests and gets out the nail clippers. Tommy sits near, shoulders twitching with every click of the clippers. 

Click, click, click. 

Neat and tidy. Then filing them to get rid of the edges. Neat and tidy. 

Good. One step further. He gets out his comb. 

"...This some kinda self care routine?" The boy's voice is rough and scratchy, lacking its usual venom when addressing Techno. It's been leaking so much, and now nothing seems to be left. He takes the nail clippers, and turns them around a few times. "How does this thing work?" his nails are worse off than Techno's were. 

"Healthy body, healthy mind." Techno takes a handful of hair and starts combing, the knots unfurling, turning silky. "Don't touch the nail clippers. I'll help you cut your nails." after combing the ends of his hair, he starts working from the top of his head and down, lightly pulling at his scalp as he returns his hair to softness. Short hesitation. "Braid my hair in return." 

He believes in absolute reciprocity. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is like my favorite writing style... It takes much more time than my normal style, but it's much more rewarding I feel like.. I hope u like it!!  
> Comments and Kudos are super appreciated!!


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